by Стивен Кинг
“Thank you so much,” Mattie repeated.
“That’s okay,” I said, and snubbed the little girl’s nose. Although her cheeks were still wet with tears, she grinned at me sunnily enough in response. “This is a very verbal little girl.”
“Very verbal, and very willful.” Now Mattie did give her child a little shake, but the kid showed no fear, no sign that shaking or hitting was the order of most days. On the contrary, her smile widened. Her mother smiled back. And yes-once you got past the slopped-together look of her, she was most extraordinarily pretty. Put her in a tennis dress at the Castle Rock Country Club (where she’d likely never go in her life, except maybe as a maid or a waitress), and she would maybe be more than pretty. A young Grace Kelly, perhaps. Then she looked back at me, her eyes very wide and grave. “Mr. Noonan, I’m not a bad mother,” she said.
I felt a start at my name coming from her mouth, but it was only momentary. She was the right age, after all, and my books were probably better for her than spending her afternoons in front of General hospital and One Life to Live. A little, anyway. “We had an argument about when we were going to the beach. I wanted to hang out the clothes, have lunch, and go this afternoon. Kyra wanted—” She broke off. “What? What did I say?”
“Her name is Kia? Did—” Before I could say anything else, the most extraordinary thing happened: my mouth was full of water. So full I felt a moment’s panic, like someone who is swimming in the ocean and swallows a wave-wash. Only this wasn’t a salt taste; it was cold and fresh, with a faint metal tang like blood. I turned my head aside and spat. I expected a gush of liquid to pour out of my mouth—the sort of gush you sometimes get when commencing artificial respiration on a near-drowning victim. What came out instead was what usually comes out when you spit on a hot day: a little white pellet. And that sensation was gone even before the little white pellet struck the dirt of the shoulder. In an instant, as if it had never been there. “That man spirted,” the girl said matter-of-factly. “Sorry,” I said. I was also bewildered. What in God’s name had that been about? “I guess I had a little delayed reaction.” Mattie looked concerned, as though I were eighty instead of forty. I thought that maybe to a girl her age, forty is eighty. “Do you want to come up to the house? I’ll give you a glass of water.”
“No, I’m fine now.”
“All right. Mr. Noonan… all I mean is that nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I was hanging sheets… she was inside watching a Mighty Mouse cartoon on the VCR…
then, when I went in to get more pins…” She looked at the girl, who was no longer smiling. It was starting to get through to her now. Her eyes were big, and ready to fill with tears. “She was gone. I thought for a minute I’d die of fear.” Now the kid’s mouth began to tremble, and her eyes filled up right on schedule. She began to weep. Mattie stroked her hair, soothing the small head until it lay against the Kmart smock top. “That’s all right, Ki,” she said. “It turned out okay this time, but you can’t go out in the road. It’s dangerous. Little things get run over in the road, and you’re a little thing. The most precious little thing in the world.” She cried harder. It was the exhausted sound of a child who needed a nap before any more adventures, to the beach or anywhere else. “Kia bad, Kia bad,” she sobbed against her mother’s neck.
“No, honey, only three,” Mattie said, and if I had harbored any further thoughts about her being a bad mother, they melted away then. Or perhaps they’d already gone—after all, the kid was round, comely, well-kept, and unbruised. On one level, those things registered. On another I was trying to cope with the strange thing that had just happened, and the equally strange thing I thought I was hearing—that the little girl I had carried off the white line had the name we had planned to give our child, if our child turned out to be a girl. “Kia,” I said. Marvelled, really. As if my touch might break her, I tentatively stroked the back of her head. Her hair was sun-warm and fine. “No,” Mattie said. “That’s the best she can say it now. Kyra, not Kia. It’s from the Greek. It means ladylike.” She shifted, a little self-conscious. “I picked it out of a baby-name book. While I was pregnant, I kind of went Oprah. Better than going postal, I guess.”
“It’s a lovely name,” I said. “And I don’t think you’re a bad mom.” What went through my mind right then was a story Frank Arlen had told over a meal at Christmas—it had been about Petie, the youngest brother, and Frank had had the whole table in stitches. Even Petie, who claimed not to remember a bit of the incident, laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. One Easter, Frank said, when Petie was about five, their folks had gotten them up for an Easter-egg hunt. The two parents had hidden loo lol over a hundred colored hard-boiled eggs around the house the evening before, after getting the kids over to their grandparents’. A high old Easter morning was had by all, at least until Johanna looked up from the patio, where she was counting her share of the spoils, and shrieked.
There was Petie, crawling gaily around on the second-floor overhang at the back of the house, not six feet from the drop to the concrete patio.
Mr. Arlen had rescued Petie while the rest of the family stood below, holding hands, frozen with horror and fascination. Mrs. Arlen had repeated the Hail Mary over and over (“so fast she sounded like one of the Chipmunks on that old “Witch Doctor’ record,” Frank had said, laughing harder than ever) until her husband had disappeared back into the open bedroom window with Petie in his arms. Then she had swooned to the pavement, breaking her nose. When asked for an explanation, Petie had told them he’d wanted to check the rain-gutter for eggs. I suppose every family has at least one story like that; the survival of the world’s Peties and Kyras is a convincing argument—in the minds of parents, anyway for the existence of God. “I was so scared,” Mattie said, now looking fourteen again. Fifteen at most.
“But it’s over,” I said. “And Kyra’s not going to go walking in the road anymore. Are you, Kyra?” She shook her head against her mother’s shoulder without raising it. I had an idea she’d probably be asleep before Mattie got her back to the good old doublewide. “You don’t know how bizarre this is for me,” Mattie said. “One of my favorite writers comes out of nowhere and saves my kid. I knew you had a place on the TR, that big old log house everyone calls Sara Laughs, but folks say you don’t come here anymore since your wife died.”
“For a long time I didn’t,” I said. “If Sara was a marriage instead of a house, you’d call this a trial reconciliation.”
She smiled fleetingly, then looked grave again. “I want to ask you for something. A favor.”
“Ask away.”
“Don’t talk about this. It’s not a good time for Ki and me.”
“Why not?”
She bit her lip and seemed to consider answering the question—one I might not have asked, given an extra moment to consider—and then shook her head. “It’s just not. And I’d be so grateful if you didn’t talk about what just happened in town. More grateful than you’ll ever know.”
“No problem.”
“You mean it?”
“Sure. I’m basically a summer person who hasn’t been around for awhile. . which means I don’t have many folks to talk to, anyway.” There was Bill Dean, of course, but I could keep quiet around him. Not that he wouldn’t know. If this little lady thought the locals weren’t going to find out about her daughter’s attempt to get to the beach by shank’s mare, she was fooling herself. “I think we’ve been noticed already, though. Take a look up at Brooksie’s Garage. Peek, don’t stare.” She did, and sighed. Two old men were standing on the tarmac where there had been gas pumps once upon a time. One was very likely Brookshe himself; I thought I could see the remnants of the flyaway red hair which had always made him look like a downeast version of Bozo the Clown. The other, old enough to make Brooksie look like a wee slip of a lad, was leaning on a gold-headed cane in a way that was queerly vulpine. “I can’t do anything about them,” she said, sounding depressed. “Nobody can do anything a
bout them. I guess I should count myself lucky it’s a holiday and there’s only two of them.”
“Besides,” I added, “they probably didn’t see much.” Which ignored two things: first, that half a dozen cars and pick-em-ups had gone by while we had been standing here, and second, that whatever Brooksie and his elderly friend hadn’t seen, they would be more than happy to make up. On Mattie’s shoulder, Kyra gave a ladylike snore. Mattie glanced at her and gave her a smile full of rue and love. “I’m sorry we had to meet under circumstances that make me look like such a dope, because I really am a big fan. They say at the bookstore in Castle Rock that you’ve got a new one coming out this summer.” I nodded. “It’s called Helen’s Promise.”
She grinned. “Good title.”
“Thanks. You better get your buddy back home before she breaks your arm.”
“Yeah.” There are people in this world who have a knack for asking embarrassing, awkward questions without meaning to—it’s like a talent for walking into doors. I am one of that tribe, and as I walked with her toward the passenger side of the Scout, I found a good one. And yet it was hard to blame myself too enthusiastically. I had seen the wedding ring on her hand, after all. “Will you tell your husband?” Her smile stayed on, but it paled somehow. And tightened. If it were possible to delete a spoken question the way you can delete a line of type when you’re writing a story, I would have done it. “He died last August.”
“Mattie, I’m sorry. Open mouth, insert foot.”
“You couldn’t know. A girl my age isn’t even supposed to be married, is she? And if she is, her husband’s supposed to be in the army, or something.” There was a pink baby-seat—also Kmart, I guessed in the passenger side of the Scout.
Mattie tried to boost Kyra in, but I could see she was struggling. I stepped forward to help her, and for just a moment, as I reached past her to grab a plump leg, the back of my hand brushed her breast. She couldn’t step back unless she wanted to risk Kyra’s slithering out of the seat and onto the floor, but I could feel her recording the touch.
My husband’s dead, not a threat, so the big-deal writer thinks it’s okay to cop a little feel on a hot summer morning. And what can I say? Mr. Big Deal came along and hauled my kid out of the road, maybe saved her life. No, Mattie, I may be forty going on a hundred, but I was not copping a el. Except I couldn’t say that; it would only make things worse. I felt my cheeks flush a little. “How old are you?” I asked, when we had the baby squared away and were back at a safe distance. She gave me a look. Tired or not, she had it together again. “Old enough to know the situation I’m in.” She held out her hand. “Thanks again, Mr. Noonan.
God sent you along at the right time.”
“Nah, God just told me I needed a hamburger at the Village Cafe,” I said. “Or maybe it was His opposite number. Please say Buddy’s still doing business at the same old stand.” She smiled. It warmed her face back up again, and I was happy to see it. “He’ll still be there when Ki’s kids are old enough to try buying beer with fake IDS. Unless someone wanders in off the road and asks for something like shrimp tetrazzini. If that happened he’d probably drop dead of a heart attack.”
“Yeah. Well, when I get copies of the new book, I’ll drop one off.” The smile continued to hang in there, but now it shaded toward caution. “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Noonan.”
“No, but I will. My agent gets me fifty comps. I find that as I get older, they go further.” Perhaps she heard more in my voice than I had meant to put there—people do sometimes, I guess. ’11 right. I’ll look forward to it.” I took another look at the baby, sleeping in that queerly casual way they have—her head tilted over on her shoulder, her lovely little lips pursed and blowing a bubble. Their skin is what kills me—so fine and perfect there seem to be no pores at all. Her Sox hat was askew. Mattie watched me reach in and readjust it so the visor’s shade fell across her closed eyes. “Kyra,” I said. Mattie nodded. “Ladylike.”
“Kia is an African name,” I said. “It means ’season’s beginning.” “I left her then, giving her a little wave as I headed back to the driver’s side of the Chevy. I could feel her curious eyes on me, and I had the oddest feeling that I was going to cry. That feeling stayed with me long after the two of them were out of sight; was still with me when I got to the Village Cafe. I pulled into the dirt parking lot to the left of the off-brand gas pumps and just sat there for a little while, thinking about Jo and about a home pregnancy-testing kit which had cost twenty-two-fifty. A little secret she’d wanted to keep until she was absolutely sure. That must have been it; what else could it have been? “Kia,” I said. “Season’s beginning.” But that made me feel like crying again, so I got out of the car and slammed the door hard behind me, as if I could keep the sadness inside that way.
Buddy Jellison was just the same, all right—same dirty cooks’ whites and splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained with either beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same oatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was maybe fifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men seems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was huge and shambly—probably six-four, three hundred pounds—and just as full of grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before. “You want a menu or do you remember?” he grunted, as if I’d last been in yesterday. “You still make the Villageburger Deluxe?”
“Does a crow still shit in the pine tops?” Pale eyes regarding me. No condolences, which was fine by me. “Most likely. I’ll have one with everything—a Villageburger, not a crow—plus a chocolate frappe. Good to see you again.” I offered my hand. He looked surprised but touched it with his own. Unlike the whites, the apron, and the hat, the hand was clean. Even the nails were clean. “Yuh,” he said, then turned to the sallow woman chopping onions beside the grill. “Villageburger, Audrey,” he said.
“Drag it through the garden.” I’m ordinarily a sit-at-the-counter kind of guy, but that day I took a booth near the cooler and waited for Buddy to yell that it was ready—Audrey short-orders, but she doesn’t waitress. I wanted to think, and Buddy’s was a good place to do it.
There were a couple of locals eating sandwiches and drinking sodas straight from the can, but that was about it; people with summer cottages would have to be starving to eat at the Village Cafe, and even then you’d likely have to haul them through the door kicking and screaming. The floor was faded green linoleum with a rolling topography of hills and valleys. Like Buddy’s uniform, it was none too clean (the summer people who came in probably failed to notice his hands). The woodwork was greasy and dark. Above it, where the plaster started, there were a number of bumper-stickers—Buddy’s idea of decoration.
HORN BROKEN—WATCH FOR FINGER.
WIFE AND DOG MISSING. REWARD FOR DOG.
THERE’s NO TOWN DRUNK HERE, WE ALL TAKE TURNS. Humor is almost always anger with its makeup on, I think, but in little towns the makeup tends to be thin. Three overhead fans paddled apathetically at the hot air, and to the left of the soft-drink cooler were two dangling strips of flypaper, both liberally stippled with wildlife, some of it still struggling feebly. If you could look at those and still eat, your digestion was probably doing okay. I thought about a similarity of names which was surely, had to be, a coincidence. I thought about a young, pretty girl who had become a mother at sixteen or seventeen and a widow at nineteen or twenty. I thought about inadvertently touching her breast, and how the world judged men in their forties who suddenly discovered the fascinating world of young women and their accessories.
Most of all I thought of the queer thing that had happened to me when Mattie had told me the kid’s name—that sense that my mouth and throat were suddenly flooded with cold, mineral-tangy water. That rush. When my burger was ready, Buddy had to call twice. When I went over to get it, he said: “You back to stay or to clear out?”
“Why?” I asked. “Did you miss me, Buddy?”
&
nbsp; “Nup,” he said, “but at least you’re from in-state. Did you know that “Massachusetts’ is Piscataqua for ’asshole’?”
“You’re as funny as ever,” I said. “Yuh. I’m going on fuckin Letterman. Explain to him why God gave seagulls wings.”
“Why was that, Buddy?”
“So they could beat the fuckin Frenchmen to the dump.” I got a newspaper from the rack and a straw for my frappe. Then I detoured to the pay phone and, tucking my paper under my arm, opened the phone book. You could actually walk around with it if you wanted; it wasn’t tethered to the phone. Who, after all, would want to steal a Castle County telephone directory? There were over twenty Devores, which didn’t surprise me very much—it’s one of those names, like Pelkey or Bowie or Toothaker, that you kept coming across if you lived down here. I imagine it’s the same everywhere—some families breed more and travel less, that’s all. There was a Devore listing for “RD Wsp HI1 Rd,” but it wasn’t for a Mattie, Mathilda, Martha, or M. It was for Lance. I looked at the front of the phone book and saw it was a 1997 model, printed and mailed while Mattie’s husband was still in the land of the living.
Okay… but there was something else about that name. Devote, Devote, let us now praise famous Devores; wherefore art thou Devore? But it wouldn’t come, whatever it was. I ate my burger, drank my liquefied ice cream, and tried not to look at what was caught on the flypaper.
While I was waiting for the sallow, silent Audrey to give me my change (you could still eat all week in the Village Cafe for fifty dollars… if your blood-vessels could stand it, that was), I read the sticker pasted to the cash register. It was another Buddy Jellison special:
CYBERSPACE SCARED ME SO BAD I DOWNLOADED IN MY PANTS. This didn’t exactly convulse me with mirth, but it did provide the key for solving one of the day’s mysteries: why the name Devore had seemed not just familiar but evocative. I was financially well off, rich by the standards of many. There was at least one person with ties to their, however, who was rich by the standards of everybody, and filthy rich by the standards of most year-round residents of the lakes region. If, that was, he was still eating, breathing, and walking around. “Audrey, is Max Devore still alive?” She gave me a little smile. “Oh, ayuh. But we don’t see him in here too often.” That got the laugh out of me that all of Buddy’s joke stickers hadn’t been able to elicit. Audrey, who had always been yellowish and who now looked like a candidate for a liver transplant, snickered herself. Buddy gave us a librarian’s prim glare from the far end of the counter, where he was reading a flyer about the holiday NASCAR race at Oxford Plains. I drove back the way I had come. A big hamburger is a bad meal to eat in the middle of a hot day; it leaves you feeling sleepy and heavy-witted. All I wanted was to go home (I’d been there less than twenty-four hours and was already thinking of it as home), flop on the bed in the north bedroom under the revolving fan, and sleep for a couple of hours. When I passed Wasp Hill Road, I slowed down. The laundry was hanging listlessly on the lines, and there was a scatter of toys in the front yard, but the Scout was gone. Mattie and Kyra had donned their suities, I imagined, and headed on down to the public beachie. I’d liked them both, and quite a lot. Mattie’s short-lived marriage had probably hooked her somehow to Max Devote. .